“Those wi’ your brand on?”
“Sure.”
Doc smiled. He could not well have failed to become the leader of this village. Power was written in every line of his hard, shrewd face.
The moment the drinks had been served and heartily consumed, he addressed himself to the company generally. And, at his first words, Smallbones flashed a wicked look of triumph into the face of Jim Thorpe.
“It’s this cattle-rustlin’,” he said, coming to the point at once. “It’s got to quit, an’ it’s right up to us to see it does quit. I ain’t come here like a politician, nor a sky-pilot to talk the rights an’ wrongs of things. It’s not in my line ladlin’ out psalms an’ things. Ther’s folks paid fer that sort o’ hogwash. It’s jest been decided to run a gang o’ vigilantes over this district, an’ every feller called upon’s expected to roll up prompt. I’ve been around an’ 250 located twelve of the boys from the ranges. I want eight more. With me it’ll make twenty-one. Smallbones,” he proceeded, turning on the hardware merchant with an authority that would not be denied, “you’ll make one. You two fellers, Jake, an’ you, carpenter––that’s three. You, Rust––that’s four. Long Pete an’ you, Sam Purdy, an’ Crook Wilson; you three ain’t doin’ a heap hangin’ around this bum canteen––that’s seven.” His eyes suddenly sought Jim’s, and a cold command fell upon his victim even before his words came. “Guess, under the circ’s,” he remarked pointedly, “you’d best make the eighth.”
But Jim shook his head. A light of determination, as keen as the doctor’s own, shone in the smiling eyes that confronted the man of authority.
“Not for mine, Doc,” he said deliberately. “Not on your life. Here, I don’t want any mistake,” he hastened on, as he watched the anger leap into the other’s face, and beheld the sparkle of malice lighting the beady eyes of Smallbones. “Just listen to me. If you’ll take a look around you’ll see a number of fellers, mostly good fellers, more than half of ’em believing me to be the rustler they’re all looking for. Well, for one thing you can’t put me on a vigilance committee with folks suspecting me. It isn’t fair either way, to me or them. Then, in the second place, I’ve got a say. I tell you, Doc, straight up and down, as man to man, I don’t hunt with hounds that are snapping at my shoulders in the run. I’m either a rustler or I’m not. I choose to say I’m not. That being so I guess I’m the most interested in running these gophers, who are, to their holes. Well, that’s what I’m going to do. But I’m going to do it in my own way, and not 251 under any man’s command. I’ve got a few dollars by me and so long as they last, and my horse lasts out, I’m going to get busy. You’re a man of intelligence, so I guess you’ll see my point. Anyway, I hunt alone.”
It was a lucky thing for Jim Thorpe that he was dealing with a really strong man, and a fearless one. One weak spot in the character of Doc Crombie, one trifling pettiness, which could have taken umbrage at the defiance of his authority, one atom of small-mindedness, whereby he could have been influenced by the curious evidence against this man, and the yelping hounds of Barnriff would have been let loose, and set raging at his heels. As it was, Doc Crombie, whatever may have been his faults, was before all things a man.
He turned from Jim with a shrug.
“Plain speakin’s good med’cine,” he said, glancing coldly over his shoulder. “You’ve spoke a heap plain. So will I. Hit your own trail, boy. But remember, this dogone rustler’s got to be rounded up and finished off as neat as a rawhide rope’ll do it. If he ain’t found––wal, we’re goin’ to clear Barnriff of this trouble anyways. I don’t guess you need a heap of extry-ordinary understandin’ to get my meaning. You’re gettin’ a big chanct––why, take it. Gay,” he said, turning abruptly to the butcher, “I guess you’ll make the tally of the committee. We start out to-night.”